"Those people can't kill me" ~ an excerpt

Hennessy could see a figure across the street, a block distant, but paid him little mind. It looked like J. C. Roe, the Boylan security officer detailed to watch his house. Hennessy didn’t care much about the added protection. He didn’t need one of his men or friends like Billy O’Connor to walk home with him every night. Sure he had enemies—any chief of police had more than a human share—but he was safe enough here. He knew most of his neighbors, at least by sight, and after all, remembering faces was part of his business. John Petersen, who had joined Boylan’s force seven or eight months ago, lived across the street with his mother. Another neighbor, Officer Charles Dayton, a city cop, shared half of the Thames family’s shotgun cottage below the corner. Hennessy strode past the Thames’s door, anxious to get home out of the damp. He did not make it.
He felt the bullets before he heard them. Cuts in his face and arm stung, as a deeper pain tossed him off balance and crackled along his ribs. Hennessy grabbed his Colt from his waistcoat. The walls of the buildings around him shuddered as he turned toward the flashes. Losing his breath, he hurried to the corner, firing back at the dark figures coming for him....
O’Connor looked down the dilapidated Basin Street sidewalk toward the center of the city. Hennessy sat alone on a doorstep, bleeding from his face, hands, and legs. The left side of his coat was ripped into a dark red tangle and his Colt hung from his hand, the pearl grips smeared with blood. “They gave it to me, but I gave ’em back the best I could.”